Location: 18,000 Feet, Above the Line of Control (LoC) Sector: Dras-Kargil Time: 11:30 AM
The wind chill was minus 25 degrees Celsius. The air was thin enough to kill an unacclimatized man in minutes. But inside the cockpit of the Indian Air Force Cheetah Helicopter, the temperature was rising.
Not from the engine, but from the massive, sealed aluminum cauldrons strapped to the cargo floor behind the pilots.
Vikram, a senior war correspondent for NDTV, was strapped into the co-pilot's seat. He wasn't wearing a flak jacket. He was wearing a dinner napkin tucked into his heavy parka.
"We are crossing the Zero Line in ten seconds!" the pilot, Squadron Leader Rathore, shouted over the deafening roar of the rotors. "Cameras rolling?"
Vikram turned to the cameraman squeezed in the back, huddled next to the steaming pots. "Roll it! This is history!"
Below them, the jagged white peaks of the Himalayas rushed by like the teeth of a saw. Usually, flying this path meant dodging Stinger missiles and anti-aircraft fire. Today, the radar warning receiver was silent.
"Target in sight!" Rathore yelled. "Pakistani Post 53! Green smoke verified!"
Vikram looked down through the plexiglass. On a snowy ridge that had seen fierce fighting just two years ago, Pakistani soldiers were standing in the open. They weren't aiming rifles. They were waving green smoke grenades—not to blind the chopper, but to guide it in.
"Deploying payload!"
The side door slid open. The freezing mountain air rushed in, clashing violently with the hot steam escaping the cauldrons.
The Drop
The "Bomb" was a specially designed cargo crate, cushioned with parachutes. As the crew chief kicked it out, the lid of the outer container cracked open slightly due to the pressure change.
A massive cloud of steam erupted into the thin, pristine mountain air. It wasn't the black smoke of TNT. It was the rich, intoxicating aroma of Hyderabadi Nihari, slow-cooked for 12 hours with bone marrow, black pepper, and pure ghee.
Vikram screamed into his headset microphone, his voice cracking with emotion:
"Viewers! You are seeing it live! The Indian Air Force has just dropped a 50kg thermal payload on the enemy! But it smells of cardamom and cloves! The 'Spicy Nihari' has landed in Pakistan!"
The crate drifted down, landing with a soft thump in the snow, twenty meters from the Pakistani bunker.
Meanwhile: 2 Kilometers North
Location: Above Indian Post 'Bajrang' Vehicle: Pakistan Army Puma Helicopter
Hamza, a reporter for Geo News, was holding onto a strap for dear life as the heavy Puma chopper banked sharply around a mountain spur.
"There!" the Pakistani pilot pointed. "The Indians! They are waving orange flags!"
In the back of the chopper, soldiers prepared their retaliation. They weren't dropping Nihari. They were dropping the "Atomic Bomb" of Lahore: Special Lahori Mutton Biryani.
"Drop it!" Hamza shouted, narrating for his camera lens which was fogging up from the steam. "The Pakistan Army responds with full force! We are shelling them with the finest Basmati rice and goat meat known to man! Take that!"
The crates tumbled out. They landed in the deep snow just ten meters from the Indian bunker.
Ground Zero: Indian Post
Major Suryadev Singh and his men rushed out of their bunkers. They didn't have bayonets fixed. They had stainless steel spoons.
The Major ripped open the thermal seal of the Pakistani crate. The steam hit his face like a physical blow. The smell of saffron, caramelized onions, and tender mutton instantly overwhelmed the smell of diesel and gun oil that usually hung over the post.
He looked up at the retreating Pakistani helicopter. He didn't fire a flare. He waved his hand.
Then, he looked at the camera crew that had landed earlier to document the reception.
"Major!" the journalist asked, shoving a mic in his face. "What is your assessment of the enemy attack?"
The Major took a bite of the steaming Biryani. He closed his eyes. The spices danced on his tongue—a taste of a city he had only seen on maps.
He opened his eyes, grinning, his teeth stained yellow with turmeric.
"Deadly," the Major declared. "Absolutely deadly. Tell the Pakistanis... their aim is perfect. And tell them the meat is tender."
Ground Zero: Pakistani Post
On the other side, Captain Rashid was tearing into a piece of Naan dipped in the thick, spicy Indian Nihari. His face was red from the chili, but he was laughing.
"Sir," his radio operator called out, holding the handset. "Brigade HQ is asking for a situation report. They want to know if we took casualties."
Rashid licked the gravy off his fingers. "Tell HQ," he said, chewing happily, "that the only casualty is my diet plan. And tell them to send more Naan."
The Media Fallout
By noon, the footage was playing on every screen from London to Tokyo. The world was watching in disbelief.
CNN Headline: FOOD FIGHT ON THE NUCLEAR BORDER.
The Visual: A split screen. On the left, a Pakistani soldier eating Indian Nihari. On the right, an Indian soldier eating Pakistani Biryani. Both looked happier than they had in years.
The Commentary: It was impossible for the warmongers to talk about "strategic depth" and "nuclear deterrence" when the frontlines looked like a picnic.
Back in Agra, inside the hotel suite, I watched the footage on the TV. The plan had worked better than I imagined. The "Human Element" had taken over. You can order a soldier to shoot an enemy; it is much harder to order him to shoot a man who just sent him lunch.
Vajpayee stood next to me, watching the screen.
"General," he murmured, shaking his head. "You realize what you have done? You have ruined military discipline forever. How will they shoot each other next week after sharing lunch today?"
I picked up my cap and placed it on my head, looking at my reflection—the reflection of a dictator who had just disarmed his own army with rice and meat.
"That, Mr. Prime Minister," I said softly, "was exactly the plan."
But as the laughter on the TV screen continued, my secure satellite phone buzzed in my pocket. I looked at the caller ID. "Corps Commander Headquarters - Rawalpindi."
The smile vanished from my face. The soldiers were happy. The people were happy. But the Generals... the Generals were hungry for blood, not Biryani.
"The bill has arrived," I whispered to myself.
I answered the phone. "This is the Chief Executive."
"Sir," the cold, metallic voice of General Aziz Khan (Chief of General Staff) crackled in my ear. "We have seen the news. The boys are confused. And the Mullahs are gathering in Raja Bazaar. You need to come back. Now."
The picnic was over.
Author's Note
The "Deadly" Attack.
There is an old saying: "The way to a man's heart is through his stomach." Aditya just proved that the way to a nation's peace treaty is also through its stomach.
Writing the "Tasty Bomb" scene was fun, but it highlights a sad reality: The soldiers on the ground often have more in common with each other (culture, food, language) than they do with the politicians sending them to die.
Next Chapter: The honeymoon in Agra ends. Aditya has to fly back to Islamabad. Waiting for him are the "Three Snakes": The Intelligence Chief, the Fundamentalist Mullah, and the CIA Station Chief.
Question: If you had to drop a "Food Bomb" on a rival country to make peace, what dish would you choose?
— AR Kael